


Your grief is your downfall

by Ebm36



Series: He was a father to all of us [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 12:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36
Summary: Sequel to: He hasn't touched a drop(English is not my native language ... Thank you, Beth, for your help. All remaining errors are mine.Thank you, Kira, for reading, reading and reading again.)





	Your grief is your downfall

“Please, calm down.” Constance pleaded for the third time. “You just checked the courtyard and the street.”

 

“They left hours ago, Aramis should be back. Sylvie’s lodgings are barely two _lieues_ from here. I will go and…”

 

“Now that’s enough Charles, you are of no use in this state.” Constance snapped, her hands on her hips.

 

She rarely used his Christian name and it wasn’t a good sign.

 

“You can’t understand.” D’Artagnan muttered his hair falling in his wet eyes.

 

“Oh, of course I can’t. I’m not mourning!” She answered  in a broken cry.

 

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan whispered before turning around and leaving the room cursing his cowardice as he heard her muffled sobs.

 

          He sat down on the _Inséparables'_ favourite bench and began to carve the edge of the table with his _main gauche,_ a spiral slowly blossoming at the top of the blade.

 

 _When Tréville will see…_ He thought, before realising that his mind had briefly forgotten that ‘Tréville will see’ was now impossible…

 

          He clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt and bit his cheek so violently that it bled. He stood up abruptly and was about to check the street again when he saw a hunched figure slipping silently through the vaulted entrance of the courtyard. He ran to join Aramis who looked up at him, his expression blank and his features drawn from exhaustion. Aramis just shook his head negatively, nervously running his fingers through his curls and let his weary steps lead him to their usual table. D’Artagnan followed him and gripped his arm to make him turn around.

 

“And that’s all? You didn’t find him so you just go home and have a good night’s sleep?”

 

          The young man’s eyes were dark and the flickering flame of the torches made them even more furious and hollow.

 

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Aramis spat and d’Artagnan felt his feverish eyes burn holes in his skin.

 

“And now what? We just  abandon him?” he shouted back in a broken voice.

 

“We don’t abandon him. He isn’t with Sylvie, I told her to stay and wait  in case he chose to reappear there. Porthos is searching the taverns and …”

 

“And you?” D'Artagnan snarled.

 

“I …” Aramis murmured before suddenly freezing his eyes wide with something of a trapped deer in their dark depths.

 

          D’Artagnan stared  at him surprised.

 

“Look, you should go back to Constance.” Aramis managed to articulate throwing distraught looks somewhere in the darkness above d’Artagnan’s shoulder.  “Tomorrow will be a long and difficult day. One of us needs to be strong and rested. We need you D’Artagnan.”

 

          Aramis’ tone was a lot more soft and d’Artagnan frowned at this sudden change of behaviour.

 

“Er … Ask … Constance to warm some broth for Athos if he …” He continued.

 

          D’Artagnan loosened his grip on Aramis’ arm noticing how his fingers dug into the muscles.

 

“Not _if_ , Aramis, _when_ , _when_ he will be back…” D’Artagnan answered gently. “I’m sorry … about … you know ...” He made an evasive movement making him look like the brash boy he had been years ago.

 

          Aramis laid a comforting hand on his forearm and squeezed lightly. D’Artagnan nodded and ran towards his lodgings. Aramis looked at him amazed that the young man could agree so quickly. He released the breath he had been holding for long seconds and rushed towards the gates.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜   

 

“Athos?” Porthos whispered as he noticed his friend’s unsteady gait.

 

          They had walked slowly through the narrow dark streets, guided by the moon and Athos had disentangled himself from Porthos’ embrace, his pride stronger than his exhaustion but now that they were close to the garrison he felt his strength leaving him as it sometimes happened to old horses which walked for hours and collapsed as soon as they saw their stables.

 

“Athos …” Porthos repeated, gently taking his arm.

 

“I will manage.” Athos grunted.

 

“Of course you will, Captain, as soon as your stomach is full of Constance’s best _[pot-au-feu *****.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11692026#work_endnotes)” _

 

          Athos stepped sideways and leaned his back on a wall, closing his eyes against the dizziness. Porthos came to face him, waited patiently and froze as he saw his friend slowly sliding down the wall, his hat falling in the mud.

 

“Woah!” Porthos exclaimed crouching down in front of him. “Athos, what is it?”

 

          Athos shook his head and kept his eyes closed.

 

“I … I told him before the war.” Athos whispered, his voice hoarse.

 

“What did you tell him?” Porthos whispered laying a hand on Athos’ shoulder, a gesture which made the exhausted man jump and blink at him.

 

“I couldn't lead the Musketeers, I still can’t …”

 

          Porthos looked sadly into the troubled water of the grey-green eyes fearing what he had so much hoped  moments ago: tears.He looked up at the dark sky, at the faint quivering stars hiding behind a veil of mist and squeezed his eyes shut until his heartbeat slowed down a little. He heard his friend sniffle discreetly and when he looked down at him, he saw, in the silvery light of the moon, the glistening tracks making their slow way through Athos’ stubble. Sighing resignedly he picked up the hat, brushed it slightly against his thigh and put it carefully on its owner unruly  hair. He paused a second to lightly cup Athos’ cheek, wiping the tears with his thumb - a gesture which, surprisingly, Athos didn’t escape, even leaning into the touch- then he stood up and reached out his right hand towards his friend.

          Athos looked up and took the proffered reassuring hand to stand and try to find his balance on his wobbly legs. He was beyond exhaustion and Porthos didn’t hesitate, he curled an arm around Athos’ waist and did his best to take most of his weight as they slowly approached the garrison.He felt Athos stiffen against his side when the cobbles gradually coloured in orange shades from the bright torches of the courtyard.Athos raised the head he had  kept low until then and froze.

 

“Hey, Athos, we are almost home …” Porthos murmured in a tone he would use for a child, his deep low voice a soft rumble reverberating through Athos’ body.

 

          When Athos didn’t move and just stared with wide wet eyes at the entrance of their garrison, he followed his gaze. When they had expected  the place to be empty, when Porthos had planned to tuck  his over fatigued Captain in a cocoon of blankets before bringing him a bowl of hot rich broth, they were now face to face with their brothers and Porthos felt Athos’ uneasiness.

 

“Now, come on Athos. You know I really need to sleep as you do.” He tried to joke.

 

          Athos stepped back shaking his head and wiping his cheeks frantically but it was in vain as his tears wouldn’t stop, his body betraying him. They weren’t tears of grief now, just the expression of how weak he was after two days of exertion.  He turned towards the wall of the archway and hit it with his fist making Porthos wince.

 

“I can’t … He mustn't see me …”

 

“Oh I see.” Porthos smiled fondly. “The boy, you don’t want to show him your weakness.”

 

          Athos slowly turned to look at him leaning his back on the rough stone.

 

“The boy isn’t a boy anymore, is he?” Porthos asked with a smile.

 

          Athos looked at the two men in the courtyard, they seemed to be arguing now and he frowned.

 

“He has already seen your tears, our tears, as we have already seen his. We are men Athos, just men, only men.”

 

          At this, Athos’ upper lip curled up slightly. Suddenly he seemed to relax and Porthos turned around to see d’Artagnan leaving Aramis and the latter running towards them. Aramis stopped abruptly in front of Athos. The glowing light played with the Captain’s features, increasing the depth of the wrinkles around his eyes, the relief of his scar, the palor of his cheeks. Aramis frowned and Athos could feel his sharp inquisitive look searching the possible traces of alcohol on the pale skin, but the only traces he noticed were those of the tears. Unable to bear the scrutiny any longer, Athos averted his eyes and brushed past Aramis to cross the courtyard in the direction of the stairs.

 

          Porthos threw a dark look at Aramis who mouthed:

 

“What?”

 

          Porthos ignored him rolling his eyes and followed Athos.

 

“Athos, wait!”

 

          He ran to join him but Athos turned around gripping the ramp tightly because suddenly the world had decided to dance under his feet and he shook his head.

 

“Please … no … I need to …” He whispered with a sad look before starting to wearily climb the stairs.

 

          Porthos just stayed there, frozen, watching the walls he had carefully and gently destroyed reappearing higher and thicker. A sigh and the creaking of leather made him turn around.

 

“It’s your doing Aramis!” He sneered his eyes like glowing coals in the night. “He needed your trust and your help, not your suspicion!”

 

“I know him and …” Aramis tried to fight back.

 

“ You know him? No, you don’t. If you don’t trust him you don’t know him. Can’t you see that he is exhausted? And it’s not from too much drink, it’s from not enough sleep and no food at all since … Since …” He sighed raising his arms towards the sky. “Where did you leave your brain, Aramis? ” Porthos finished his sentence shouting.

 

“I’m sorry … I …” Aramis mumbled his hat now a barely recognisable piece of felt between his nervous fingers. “But you don’t understand…”

 

“Oh, I know, I’m stupid …”

 

“It’s not a matter of trust Porthos … It’s …”

 

“It’s?” Porthos snapped in a harsh tone.

 

          Aramis lowered his eyes under the weight of Porthos’ accusing look and he breathed out, barely audible.

 

“It’s … fear.”

 

“Oh, now, that’s very helpful.” Porthos snarled, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness surrounding them.

 

“I lost so many people, Porthos, family, friends, women I loved, and the C …”

 

“You, you, you! WE, Aramis, WE lost family, friends, women we loved and the Captain.”

 

          Aramis gasped, let his hat fall and brought his hands to his mouth.

 

“You are many things, Aramis, but I didn't know you were a selfish idiot.”

 

“Porthos … please.” Aramis murmured his cheekbones shining suspiciously in the flickering light.

 

“Don’t Aramis, don’t!” Porthos growled. “Don’t ask for my pity, you …”

 

          A loud thud made them jump and look up at the balcony.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

          Athos closed his eyes and tried to  calm his breathing and his heart. He knew that his current weakness was due to exhaustion, lack of sleep, lack of food and a suffocating  grief  but he needed to escape Porthos’ worry and Aramis’ suspicion. The image of himself he could see in their eyes was the same that his fatigued mind created: a shell of a man, a drunkard, an unworthy captain. He heard Porthos’ angry voice and Aramis’ whispers and wished he could close his ears the way he closed his eyes.

 

          Second step. Sweat was now soaking his shirt but the tears had stopped. He snorted thinking that his body didn’t even manage to produce the two kinds of water at the same time.

 

 _Suspicion. Yes, Aramis, you suspected me._ He thought.   _And it hurts, but you are right, Aramis, I nearly fell, I nearly failed._

 

          Third step. _God, I won’t manage._

 

          Fourth step. _I shouldn't have refused Porthos’ help._

 

          Athos knew that they were arguing and that he was the reason of their fight. Gripping the wood even more tightly, he slowly made his way up the stairs refusing to look up at the balcony, an aim which seemed so far away …

 

          He swallowed his saliva which was thick and bitter. He longed for a drink, something strong and sweet like the old cognac Tréville had forgotten on a shelf of his former office and which one day he …

 

          Athos gasped and moaned at the thought his mind had nearly proffered. The thought of a world where the man he had considered a father would come back …

 

          He clapped a hand to his mouth. _Almost there Athos, you are almost there. Be brave._ He tried to encourage himself.

 

          The angry voices of Porthos and Aramis were still droning in the courtyard but he couldn't make out the words even if the sound was now louder.

 

          At last, he reached the door of his office. HIS office… no it would never be his office. He leaned his back against the  balustrade and tried to stop the whole balcony from moving, undulating and vibrating.  He felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat and suddenly the world became black.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

  


“God!” Aramis whispered before running upstairs.

 

          Porthos felt as if his boots were full of lead. _Fear._ What kept him from moving was fear, the same feeling which had induced Aramis’ behaviour a few moments before. He was suddenly caught in a thick fog, unable to move until he heard the faint sound of light slaps.

 

“Athos, Athos, please.” Aramis pleaded urgently.

 

          Another shower of light slaps and again, Aramis’ broken voice.

 

“Please, Athos, wake up … Yes, that’s it, come on, wake up.”

 

          Running footsteps rose Porthos from his stupor.

 

“What happened? I was … I heard … Is it Athos? Where is he? Porthos!” D’Artagnan shouted gripping Porthos’ shoulders to shake him and bring him back from whatever place he had lost himself.

 

“Er … Yeah … it’s him … He is fine.”

 

“Fine?” D’Artagnan cried again. “What was that noise?”

 

“Nothing. He is exhausted, he just … er … stumbled … Stairs … er … darkness … you know …”

 

          Porthos was confused and he knew that his speech was slurred but he managed to shake himself and articulate.

 

“Can you go and tell Sylvie that he is fine and back here? We will take care of him. Tell her not to come.”

 

“Why?” D’Artagnan asked frowning. “Why does he need your help? Why don’t you want her to come?”

 

“D’Artagnan, please.” Porthos whimpered.

 

“He is drunk.” D’Artagnan stated bitterly.

 

          Porthos reacted at once seizing the collar of his friend’s shirt.

 

“Don’t you dare, d’Artagnan. No he isn’t, he is beyond exhaustion, he is grieving and he is proud, too proud to let you and Sylvie see him in this state.” Porthos shouted, tightening his grip until he noticed a veil of tears shadowing the big brown eyes. “Sorry … I …”

 

“I’m sorry Porthos. I will go. Then I will bring him a bowl of _pot-au-feu._ ”

 

“Thank you.” Porthos murmured, absentmindedly smoothing the folds of the young man’s shirt.

 

          D’Artagnan nodded ruefully, turned around and ran towards his lodgings. Porthos watched him then shook himself, straightened and climbed the stairs wearily. Matching his mood, the sky was now darkened by heavy clouds eerily playing with the moon and when he arrived on the landing he couldn’t make out the two figures huddled together on the floor. The balcony was dark, only lit by the far flickering glow of the torches giving the whole scene the atmosphere of a wake which made Porthos shiver. He crouched down and Aramis raised his shining tired eyes. Athos’ head was cradled in the crook of his elbow, eyes half closed, cheeks glistening. When he noticed Porthos’ presence the exhausted Captain tried to stand up but his attempt failed as a wave of dizziness made him fall back onto Aramis’ lap. He sighed angrily but it sounded like a sob and he turned his face to hide it in the folds of Aramis’ shirt trying to calm his nerves in the familiar scent of his friend’s clothes, a mixture of leather, rose water and something more musky like the aroma of cinnamon. Aramis had been unusually silent and he just tightened his grip around his friend’s too thin body bending down to whisper something in Athos’ damp hair, then he threw a helpless look at Porthos who just nodded with a sigh. When it was clear that Athos’ body had abandoned him again, that he was unable to close the dams Porthos had opened earlier, the tall man felt his vision blurring. He laid a hand on Athos’ thigh and felt the muscles clench under the leather.

 

“Listen to me Athos, an oil lamp needs oil to produce a flame. You need food and rest to light your flame again.”

 

          Aramis shook his head and rolled his eyes at Porthos’ unexpected and poor metaphor but it seemed to work as Athos snorted and tried to disentangle himself from his friend’s embrace. He propped himself onto his hands and knees and, gripping the bars of the balustrade, he tried to stand up. Aramis made a move to help him but Porthos stopped him with a meaningful glare so he just stood up and hovered behind Athos, ready to catch him. Porthos tried to open the door but it was locked. When he saw Athos fumble to search for the keys in an inner pocket of his jacket, he grabbed his wrist to stop him and searched the pocket himself. He drew the heavy key out with a triumphant grin which made Athos shake  his head with a very light smile … a movement which made him sway.  Aramis curled an arm around him and steered him into the dark office.

          While Porthos busied himself around the room, closing the curtains, lighting a good dozen of candles, building a fire in the cold hearth and filling a glass of water, Aramis guided Athos to his bed helping him out of his leathers. Then he took off his own coat and sat down next to him, his arm around the hunched shoulders.

 

“Aramis!” Athos grunted managing a pale imitation of his usual glare. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”

 

“I know.” Aramis replied softly. “But …”

 

“And I won’t flee again.” Athos smiled again, patting his friend’s thigh.

 

“I …”

 

“We need to work on the trust we have in each other.” Athos whispered ruefully. “Anyway, I’m not strong enough to escape your arms, my friend.”

 

          Aramis squeezed his shoulder and drew him closer to lean his temple against Athos’. The Captain  suddenly stiffened and tried to stand up.   

 

“You stay put.” Porthos said in a severe tone, a menacing forefinger pointed at Athos’ chest. “First you drink this. With all the water you shed you will end as dry as an old church mouse.”

 

“Porthos!” Aramis chided while Athos dutifully swallowed the soothing water.

 

          A soft knock at the door made him stir again in a need to hide in the darkest corner of his room. D’Artagnan’s long strands appeared first and the young man coughed shyly.  Porthos went to help him with the large basket loaded with steaming bowls and a big brown crispy bread he was carrying with clumsy gestures. Athos held his breath and Aramis feeling his uneasiness let his arm slide from his shoulder to grip his wrist in his warm hand. He could feel the fast pulse under the tip of his fingers, another proof of how weak the man was. Athos withdrew his hand rather abruptly but didn’t dare to leave the bed conscious that his body could betray him again. Porthos settled the food on the table while d’Artagnan shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Suddenly, he launched at Athos to swiftly grab his hand and kiss  his cheek murmuring:

 

“Welcome back. I missed you.”

 

          Athos gasped and stared at him with wide eyes. Porthos laughed :

 

“Now you should try to get used to that Athos.”

 

“So … sorry.” D’Artagnan stammered.  “I must … er … I …” He finished his sentence showing the door with his thumb.

 

“I only left for half a day, d’Artagnan.” Athos said in a fond tone.

 

“Sorry.” D’Artagnan repeated. “Oh … and … I’ll go to _Saint Antoine_ now, to reassure Sylvie.”

 

“I’m very grateful.” Athos told him, his hoarse voice a deep rumble in the quiet room.

 

          They all stayed silent as the door closed behind the young man. Athos lowered his face in his hands and exhaled a shaky breath. Porthos and Aramis exchanged a worried glance above the bent head.

 

“Come on now, let’s eat this delicious _pot-au-feu.”_

 

Porthos broke the silence trying to give his voice a cheerful tone. He sat down heavily and urged Aramis to do the same.

 

“Ath …” Aramis began as soon as he was in front of his bowl.

 

          Porthos shook his head.

 

“Delicious!” The big Musketeer exclaimed emphasising his word with a noisy slurp. “Ah, Constance is the best, there is laurel … and … ah, and there are cloves in this big onion. How did she manage to find cloves? I suppose she still has connections at the Palace. ” He concluded slurping -without an ounce of delicacy- the greasy broth..

 

          Aramis watched him with an irritated frown and was about to open his mouth when they heard a soft snort.

 

“Porthos, don’t ever try to be an actor!” Athos mumbled with a smile in his voice.

 

          He stood up and came to sit down on the third chair. Sadly, as soon as the strong aroma reached his nostrils, he felt his empty stomach constricting and the bile flooding his throat. He clapped a hand to his mouth and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

 

“I can’t … please …  I want to be …”

 

“Alone?” Porthos groaned, his expression becoming suddenly hard.

 

          Athos nodded.

 

“I already saw how good you are at hiding  in a dark den to lick your wounds and we can see the result.”

 

“It’s just that …”

 

“That you are a stubborn fool who still thinks that he doesn’t deserve help.”

 

          Porthos’ tone was harsh as he towered over his friends, his hands on his hips and Aramis held his breath. Athos stood up abruptly and scrambled backwards, an inscrutable expression in his teary eyes. When his calves hit the bed frame he gasped feeling trapped. Aramis who had been silent and immobile during the whole exchange slowly left his chair.

 

“Please.” Athos pleaded again.

 

“Athos you are exhausted…” Aramis whispered reaching a hand out towards him. “Porthos, stop it. Now.” He added without turning around.    

 

“I …” Porthos began.

 

“Now.” Aramis snarled his dark eyes never leaving Athos’. “Athos, calm down. It’s past midnight now. You need rest, we all need rest.”

 

“Then ... leave me …” Athos replied his lips pursed in a pale line.

 

          For a tense moment they just stared at each other until Aramis took a first step towards him. Athos closed his eyes because it was easier to shut down the world than to fight it. He didn’t open them when he felt Aramis’ breath on his cheek, he didn’t open them when he felt Aramis’ hand brushing his shoulder, he didn’t open them when pale blue eyes appeared in his inner eyelid looking at him with en unbearable reproachful expression. Aramis thought that he had managed to gain his trust but suddenly, Athos escaped his touch stepping sideways. He stumbled as he caught his heel in the belt of his sword which Aramis had left on the floor. He kicked it angrily and managed to regain his balance by gripping the edge of his dressing table, making the basin and the jug ring.

 

“Leave.” He cried, making his friends freeze. “Please.”

 

          Aramis noticed how his glazed eyes said exactly the opposite of what his mouth had just uttered. Athos’ gaze shifted towards the shelf where the golden cognac threw tantalising rays under the light of the candles, then he looked helplessly at his friends and closed his eyes to open them widely the next instant. He felt his throat tightening and the world dangerously spinning around him. Aramis approached him again, gingerly, noticing how his cheek had suddenly lost all traces of colour and the way his eyes were unfocused. One more step and he softly touched his right shoulder. Athos shook his head but didn’t move and squeezed his eyes shut, defeated, exhausted. Another step and Aramis grabbed his left elbow. Athos felt his friend’s shallow breaths against his burning skin and, as his mind became suddenly too empty to resist and his body became suddenly too weak to fight, he slumped forward, his forehead against his brother’s neck. Aramis gently wrapped his arms around him and held him in a strong embrace as he gasped and tried to catch his breath, shaking helplessly as dry sobs wracked his body because he didn’t have tears left. He clenched his jaw to silence the sorrow which made him hiccup like a child his body winning its fight against his willpower. Aramis felt the minute changes in the body he held so close to his own,  he felt the strong tremors slowly turn into incessant shivers, he felt  the quavering breaths becoming calmer and deeper.  

          As if still reluctant to let his friends take care of him, Athos who had let his arms fall to his sides, slowly, hesitantly, lifted them to Aramis’ back and took hold of his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if it was a rope keeping him from drowning. When his legs became too weak to bear his weight, he just let himself slide gently onto the floor where Aramis followed him without letting go.

          Porthos who had watched the whole scene without intervening, sniffled and wiped his face with the cuff of his shirt before approaching his friends. Aramis looked up at him and nodded. Porthos knelt next to Athos, gently tucking one of his friend’s long locks behind his ear to reveal his sorrowful eyes.

 

“Now, will you accept our help?”

 

          Athos blinked and didn’t answer, but at last he managed to straighten and tried to stand up.

 

“Tututut.” Porthos stopped him. “Do you know the meaning of _help_?”

 

          He slung an arm under his friend’s armpits to haul him carefully onto his feet. The stubborn Captain tried again to walk on his own but Porthos just tightened his grip and led him to the bed where he pushed him until he laid on his back sighing contentedly as his head hit the pillow.

 

“Stay awake for a moment.” Porthos told him.

 

          Aramis was about to argue because it was obvious that Athos needed sleep but then, Porthos brought a plate with slices of bread where he had spread mashed vegetables mixed with small pieces of meat and gravy.

 

“Eat.”

 

“Is this an order?” Athos managed to mumble.

 

“Good guess.” Porthos grumbled.

 

          Athos sat up and began to grudgingly chew his meal. Aramis smiled as he noticed that a little colour had reappeared on his friend’s face. When Athos felt his stomach forbidding him to continue, he lowered the plate on his lap and sighed raising his eyes to the dark ceiling.

 

“What is it?” Porthos said in a low voice.

 

“Tomorrow … It’s a weight I can’t … ”

 

“Tomorrow we will be with you. All of us. You are stronger than you think, Captain.” Porthos finished.

 

“Tomorrow, we will share this weight.” Aramis added.

 

          Porthos frowned.

 

“Was it a metaphor, Aramis?”

 

“A poor one, I admit it.” Aramis answered blushing slightly.

 

          Athos looked at them and smiled, a sad little smile, but a smile which reached his eyes. It wasn’t a flame yet, barely a sparkle, but it warmed his friends’ hearts. Slowly, his eyelids drooped and his head lolled gently. Before succumbing to a restful sleep, he saw an image form in his mind, an image onto which he would hold during the ordeal awaiting them:  his friends’ smiling faces and in the background pale blue peaceful eyes.  

          Aramis retrieved the plate, carefully took off his brother’s boots and building a comfortable nest of blankets and pillows, the two exhausted Musketeers settled for the rest of the night.

 

_Inséparables._

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Pot-au-feu: http://www.food.com/recipe/classic-french-pot-au-feu-crock-pot-or-le-creuset-231465


End file.
